


Something

by soulmuzik



Series: a true soulmate is a mirror [1]
Category: Sleepy Hollow (TV), Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Domestic, Crossover Pairings, Drabble, Drabble Collection, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-30
Updated: 2017-07-12
Packaged: 2018-09-13 11:36:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 10,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9121723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soulmuzik/pseuds/soulmuzik
Summary: “Don’t you ever want something more? Maybe with someone who understands…nothing domestic, but….something—“ [Drabble collection]





	1. Abbie & Dean, Saturday

Dean’s head bobbed as that familiar piano riff began, his voice bellowing over the expanse of the too-small apartment, “just take those old records off the shelf! I’ll sit and listen to them by myself!” He skated around the hardwood in his socks, the tube socks Abbie absolutely hated but were perfect for hardwood, in a crew neck and basketball shorts. He’d tossed the laundry in the machine downstairs. He’d gotten the dish washer started. The stereo was turned up to a healthy 90. Abbie had been _knocked out_ this morning. It was Saturday and he was going to clean house in peace, his way, with no interruptions and it made him want to do a little happy dance. So he put on some tunes and did just that.

That’s how Abbie found him.

It’s not like she _wanted_ to.  She’d been very content, in bed, dead to the world: her week, like every one before it, had been hard. Saturdays were pretty much the only days she could spend in bed, in peace. Not since Dean, though.

Most of her former house guests had been the quiet types. Luke was a health freak and went on hour long runs Saturday mornings, giving her ample time to get up when she pleased. Ichabod didn’t know what a stereo was, and read his way through daylight on a lazy Saturday, meaning she’d set the tone. Jenny was erratic; maybe she was home, maybe she wasn’t? Much like their childhood, except when she _was_ home, someone else was possibly with her. After they met the Winchesters, that was almost always Sam. Then they got serious and she started spending a whole lot of time at his place because Abbie couldn’t handle the _noise_.

Then Dean started coming over. Sometimes to escape the loud, happy sex, and sometimes to help her with a case. And then he started coming over to watch Back-To-The-Future marathons. They’d order Chinese and laugh. Then he was coming over for coffee, because he was out at his place. They’d drink coffee and bitch about how much Jenny and Sam put away. Then he was coming over just to see her, which had been as honest as either of them would get. A will-they-wont-they started that hasn’t met it’s painful end yet. There were not-so-accidental kisses and ‘sorry’s’ they never actually meant. There were nights, where she was cold and couldn’t shake her purgatory memories or missed Crane, and they wouldn’t talk about it, but it was like he knew, and he’d be there, and they’d lay there, side by side and it was as chaste as it could get. He’d press one of those light kisses to her forehead and she’d close her eyes, intertwine their fingers, and sleep.

They’d become domestic on accident. They didn’t call it, because it was honestly more fun to see what would happen next, and they were both on the same page when they said that they’d _deal with it later._ Right now, it was easy, like a Saturday morning.

Well, _some people’s_ Saturday mornings.

She had heard that damn riff from the bedroom and knew he was up and at ‘em, cleaning the apartment and revving to get on her last nerve. She only woke up with _seven_ on a given day, and Saturdays, they were in short supply. She groaned, obnoxious, even though he didn’t hear it over his _crooning_. She looked for her pants and a pair of socks, ensuring that her bonnet had stayed firmly in place before walking out of the bedroom, down the hall and leaning against the arch of the scene of the crime.

She glared. He smiled. She sighed, “what time is it?”

He had Windex cleaner in one hand and a rag in the other, blinds pulled open as he scrubbed away at the windows, “12:47. Rise and shine, hot pockets!” He was still shimmying away, the song blaring over the speaker. He tapped his foot, sometimes off beat, and as she began to examine him, a smile spread over her face, until she was just about laughing, “I like sleeping in on Saturdays, I was never big on Saturday cartoons.”

Confused, like a puppy, which made her giggle some more, he turned to her, “the TV isn’t on?”

She nodded, laughing a little harder, “I know.”

Realizing, his jaw set and he arched an unimpressed eyebrow, making the muscles in her stomach contract a little more, “I am literally cleaning your house, and you insult me?”

Rolling her eyes, she walked over and snatched the rag, “you volunteered.”

He squinted down at her, reminding them that he was bigger no matter what she said, and snatched the rag back, “it’s happening. So sit down and watch the show or go back to bed.”

She squinted, squelching the smile trying to push its way onto her face, “With your screeching? How?” She walked back through the hallway to the bathroom, as he, offended, yelled after her, “I have a beautiful voice, Abbie Mills. Don’t insult me.”

“Who am I to tell a kid the tooth fairy aint real?”, she says from the bathroom, washing her face, and getting the toothpaste. She hears him laugh, one of those amused without meaning to be laughs, and she smiles. These moments are so…so nice. And they happen so often. Sometimes she thinks that this is the way it was supposed to be. Shit has been so dark between Dean and Abbie’s lives that, when they’re together, they keep it light. They both need it. She didn’t know how much until she met him.

She keeps the bonnet on, walking back into the living room and plopping down on the couch, in front of where he’s cleaning the table.

He lifted his eyes up to her, long eye lashes fanning out every time he blinked. Every time he looked at her like that something they couldn’t talk about after, happened. The first time he looked at her like that, they’d just finished watching _Looper_ and bitching about how creepy the facial modification on Joseph Gordon-Levitt had been and how weird new action movies had gotten. They’d laughed, reminisced about Stallone, Samuel L. Jackson, and Schwarzenegger, and eaten the greasiest pizza they could find. It was all buddy cop until she turned her head to the left and he was looking at her. Like that. Like he was ready to give her everything.

She catches her bottom lip between her teeth, and is really trying to anchor herself to something so she doesn’t obey instinct, not at all to give him any ideas. But he’s licking his lips and putting the Windex down and shit she said she wouldn’t complicate this any more than it had to be so she parted her lips, breathed and then looked at the stereo, “do we have to listen to old fart radio?”

Instinctually, the divot between his brows creased and his devotion to 80s music killed the magic a little bit, “these are classics, baby. Are you serious?”

“Classics? You know where _classics_ belong?”, She stands, searching through his iTunes, realizing it’s a lost cause, except…

_Hey, yeah! I wanna Shoop baby!_

She turns and twists, moving her hips to the beat, eyes closed, enjoying herself the way she might of on another Saturday without Dean. When she opens her eyes, she can’t help but smile at the exasperation on his face. Partly because it’s familiar, and partly because she knows _he knows_ this is a distraction. She dances to him, and he crosses his arms, brow arched, “I’m cleaning.”

“Your packed and your stacked, especially in the back”, he fights a smile and she spins around him. He mutters a non-serious ‘no you don’t’ after _how does it hang_ . She smiles at how cranky he’s trying his best to be when he continues to clean the rest of the tables. She dances in the middle of the floor because she can; the world isn’t ending, Salt-N-Pepper is flowing and she’s up _anyways_.

“You’re just gonna stand there and dance and…”, his pause is loaded, so she looks at him and wishes she hadn’t because those damn eyes are still firmly set. “And change my music?” When he walks up to her, the heats coming off in waves, and she’s almost ready to receive it when he pivots and turns to the music. A slow electric strum builds into a drum kick, and then, Dean gets it started, “she was a fast machine, she kept her motor clean, she was the best damn woman that I ever seen!” He’s sweeping now, and she’s got hands on her hips in defiance because this must be for the misdirect earlier. He’s dancing around the broom. She takes the moment to go back to the iTunes, and surf.

She feels that heat again, and his hands slide down the length of her arms, hands dwarfing hers. She turns the music down, and she turns in his arms. There go those eyes, “we were in the middle of something before you started dancing in the middle of the carpet.”

“Cleaning?”, she asks, innocent as possible, closing some of the gap between them. He presses in as much as she does and then there’s no space. He shakes his head, leaning down. She closes the gap.

Maybe this is a little better than sleeping in on Saturday.


	2. Jenny & Sam, Reversed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jenny and Sam role-reversal. You'll see what I mean. Set after SH, Season 3, and SPN, Season 3. Have fun!

Jenny had no good memories of church.

As a girl, church was all laced socks and white dresses and sore scalps from hair braided too tight. She hated it. Back then, it was one of the many things she and her big sister had in common. Now, it remains a memory. And she'd rather it stay that way.

As a woman, church was a little more complicated. It couldn’t be _untrue_ ; she’d seen demons and angels with her own eyes. But faith, and all that? The stuff her mom used to wrestle with, and try to wrestle into them? Faith in God? Why? What had they done for her but complicate everything? If Jenny and God were mutual friends on Facebook, “It’s complicated” would be stamped between their names. You wouldn’t catch her dead in a church.

Well, unless she was hunting down a demon who’d taken up shop there and kidnapped her partner. And that’s close enough, isn’t it?

The church is dark, old, abandoned. There’s graffiti everywhere. There aren’t any seats in the pew rows. All the wood is rotting and the ceiling has collapsed in more than a few areas. The stain glass is most broken, but there are a couple of halos and praying hands and it’s all so uncomfortably familiar. She sees him, tied to a chair on the alter like…the kid in the bible, who was going to get sacrificed by his father…what was his name…

“You’re thinking of Isaac: different unfortunate set of circumstances”, the demon’s voice echoed from a chamber off the stage, as she strode in. The girl it was wearing, some hipster with a buzz cut, is wearing all this leather and black and when had demons gotten so angsty? Jenny rolled her shoulders, and pulled both guns from their places at her hip; the last time they did this dance the demon had some friends. That’s how Sam was snatched.

“Oh, you can read minds? What am I thinking right now?”

Jenny unclicks the safeties, and the demon splits the girl’s face in a smile that looks eerily unnatural. “You really wanna do all that to little old me? Why hurt the messenger, Mills?” She circles Sam, grabbing a hand full of hair and pulling. The step forward is instinctual, but the demon throws a hand up to stop her, “ah, ah. He’s just…a talking piece. I really just wanted to talk to you.”

Jenny doesn’t have time for the games, and has a clear shot, so she raises the gun at eye level, but Sam’s suddenly in the way with a knife pressed into his skin. It’s drawing blood, and the demon licks it off, “The only reason he’s still alive is because the boss likes his girls willing”, Jenny glowers at it as it continues, “so the sedative is a precaution. Funny, we’re usually going after these Winchesters. But you’re the prize today. Ancitif misses you, Mills.”

Jenny swallows past a lump in her throat, “so why take him? If you wanted me, anyway?”

“You care. And so does he. And since Abbie isn’t here—“

“Don’t talk about my sister”, Jenny’s grip on the guns tightens and Sam’s still blocking most of her target space. Her heart thuds against her ribcage like an animal that doesn’t belong there. She’s caught, between what’s been hurting and the possible truth to the demon’s words; because she does care, doesn’t she? Otherwise she’d get out. But she can’t, not without him. She doesn’t want to deal with the fact that she can’t lose him, too

It grins in that unearthly way again, “I’ve got a proposition for you. You come with me”, it nods, smiling, “you come home, and we don’t leave the world Winchester-less. Or you can try to figure out a way to explain all the blood on the alter to the police.”

Jenny clenches her jaw, “why now? Hell’s winning again. Why do you need me?”

That damn smirk is back and Jenny wishes she could blow it away, “haven’t you heard? There’s a war coming. And Ancitif only wants the best for the fight. And you’re the It Girl. Feels good to be special, don’t it? Abbie wasn’t the only one called to something. Why do you think we’re here? Not just for the theatrics, Mills. You got an unholy calling on you, and you’ve known that forever, haven’t you? Why do you think so many giants are falling? Your sister? Hell, his brother? Space is being made. It’s time to get what’s owed to you, baby girl. So come home.”

For the first time during all this, she catches Sam’s eye. They’ve told each other a lot, not everything, but enough. And his eyes look strong, despite the sedative and the ropes and the too-small chair and the blood coming from the cut on his neck and the crown of his head. His eyes are strong and clear and telling her to _resist_. To fight.

For a long time, she didn’t know how to. She learned how, the hard way in the roughest conditions but Ancitif was a reflection of how easily her resistance can be broken. Fighting, as of late, hadn’t gotten her anywhere. Her sister was gone. And they’d been tireless in their fight. It haunted her, and now, in the pit of this forsaken church, something else loomed that may haunt her.

But his eyes were sure. It was as if she could hear his voice, _fight, Jenny. It’s what we do. It’s what we have to do._

Jenny’s brow rose slow, “let him go, and I will.”

She watched the panic rise in his eyes as she put the guns down, approaching the alter. The closer she gets, the wider that smile gets on the demon. It comes from around Sam and outstretches its hand. Sam’s body, still weak from the drugs, pulls against his confines but it’s useless. She can feel his eyes boring into her. The space between she in the demon closes fast.

And then she’s snatching its hand towards her and stabbing Sam’s knife through its abdomen. “Tell Ancitif to kiss my ass.”

With a thud, the body hits the floor. It’s no longer a threat and Jenny works fast to get Sam out of that chair and the hell out of that church.

Jenny may never have any good memories in a church, but she’ll count this victory as a not so bad one.


	3. Abbie & Dean, Laundromat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Abbie and Dean, SH season 2, off canon and SPN season 8. Everybody's taken a trip to purgatory!

“No, Sammy, I’m not dead; would I be talking to you if I was dead? Jesus”, Dean balanced his phone between his shoulder and his cheek, pushing his dirty clothes into the too small washing machine. He’s hated washing machines all his life; why were they always so short and so small and costed so much more than drying? Sam was talking at him still, about _disappearing_ and all that. He rolled his eyes, popping the quarters into the machine, “Last time I skipped laundry day, I endured the bitchface for a week. Not into it. Now hang up and eat your damn sandwich. I’ll see you later”, he took the phone and hit the end button, simultaneously watching his jeans fall out of the machine because he stopped holding them in. He kneeled down, picking them all up, when he noticed that they there were significantly smaller pair compared to the others. Small and blue with _really_ shallow pockets and strangely familiar stains; was that slime?

Confused, he picked his head up, canvasing. He’d picked this place specifically because it was a hole in the wall that he’d passed _often_ and hadn’t seen _anyone_ in. Whose jeans were these?

That’s when he saw her; standing at a whopping 5’1, dark crinkled hair the only thing he could see above the short row of washing machines. Maybe he was used to _giants_ and exaggerating, but she was freakishly tiny. These had to belong to her. “Miss?” No response. She was turning her pants inside out; how thoughtful. “Miss? Hey, lady?” Still no response. He circled the machines, impatient (as was his disposition), and stood a few feet away, head angled and waiting for her to see him; he’s been snuck up on and almost killed people. He’d hate to be that asshole.

She turns around and, Dean’s got to say, it was worth the wait. Beautiful aint the beginning of the words he could use to describe her, and it’d be cheap anyway. But there are only a few people that shock you with their faces, in a good way, and she is definitely one of them. Full lips, prettiest skin he’s ever seen, and eyes like shiny, brown stars. Her mouth is moving and his brain is not computing; is he staring? Dear god.

“Sir? Hey, you need something?”, she plucks her headphones out, head turning in a way he recognizes; she’s getting impatient and _he’s still not talking_ , “uh, yeah, hi…sorry—here, I think these belong to you”, he sticks his arm out, pants in hand, and curses the clumsiness because who is he, _Sam_?

The wry smile she gives him matches the rest of her in beauty, and she takes the pants, examining. He takes the time to look at her face some more before she smiles up at him and he tries hard to not look caught, “thank you—I have no idea how they got over there, sorry about that.”

He smiles, nods, and gulps because his fight or flight reflexes are kicking in and he’s usually not this bad at flirting. But it’s been a while. He’s rusty. Rusted. Broken, maybe? Maybe hanging around Cass and Sam has broken him, “no problem.” She smiles up at him, like she can _see it_ and he’s sure he can go toe to toe with Sam for how stupid he looks. “Well, enjoy your wash”, he says and regrets, turning heel on her amused “thank you”. _Enjoy your wash?_

He went back to his machine, filling it and swearing to himself.

Seriously, what was that?

He tried to ignore it and go back to washing his clothes but both machines were full, so all he could do was wait. The laundromat was right outside of Columbus. He’d been working a case while Sam helped Kevin with some translations. He and Sam had just finished a case in Illinois, but Kevin had called and needed some help. Sam went along and Dean decided to take on another case; no breaks, so no time to think about the drama with Benny, or everything else he was trying to avoid. He was tired. So he was going to do his laundry three states away.

Even though he was bumbling his way around this girl, he had to admit it felt nice to do something normal again. The laundromat is tiny, the linoleum is all but rotted, but he can tell that there are some hardworking people in here, doing their best. Just like him. There are four machines; two near him, and two at the back of his machines. There is a wall of dryers to his right, the door, coin machine, and concession stand to his left, and the prettiest girl he’d seen since purgatory at his ten o’clock. And he was bumbling. He wondered if it was normal, to lose touch like that. Maybe it was.

She looks up, catching his eye, and they widen because did he just get caught _for real_? Her lips spread into another wry smile, and she holds up a rolled up pair of white tube socks, “pretty sure these aren’t mine.” He smirks, catching them when she tosses, and unrolls; they _are_ his, “You sure?”, he tosses them in the basket beside him, “these definitely look your style.”

She grins, “Last time I checked, I’m not a size 20 in shoes. So, nope.”.

He smirks, “touché. Where do you shop, the kids section?”

She nods, smiling at him and he feels like he’s won a prize, “nice.”

“Hey you started it”, they grin, good naturedly. She leans against the opposing wall, and her eyes float up to him. They hold gazes for a while, faces breaking into smirks. “What’s your name?”

“Dean.”

“Abbie”

“Well, Abbie”, he leans over his machine, outstretching his hand, “I’ll take back the little-guy jab if you take back the giant thing.”

She smirks, shaking his hand, “you’re right; I have seen bigger.”

“You talk to all your friends like that?” It rolls off the way water does from a ducks back, the comfortability; he just met this girl and she’s the first person to get him to laugh in a long time. You don’t laugh where he’s been. This is nice, and he hopes it doesn’t end.

That wry, flirtatious smile is back and he wants it to stay, “Oh, we’re friends?”

Those smirks turn into grins.

“Can we be?” The words are strangely vulnerable. They’ve been talking for all of five minutes and he’s ready to trade numbers and braid her hair? He needs to get a grip. But her earnest eyes keep his mind on track. Her honesty keeps him present.

“Only if you promise not to steal anymore of my jeans”, her grin is just as easy as his when he says, “scout’s honor; they’d make my ass look big anyway.” She holds her stomach at that one. He folds his arms and lets them lean on the top of the machine, “seriously. I wouldn’t be able to fend em off.”

She brings her fingers up to the edges of her machines, “I don’t know, you are a giant. You telling me you can’t run?”

He snorts, “Not in your jeans”.

She’s laughing still and he joins her, “I’d have to agree. Though, I would love to see that.”

His brows arch, humor thick in his voice, “that’s kinda kinky, Abbie.”

She pauses, and then laughs again. Why was this so easy? When was the last time that he had this kind of conversation with a person, a random person? Since he left purgatory, a fear had begun to creep up in him that he’d not only carried Benny, but that kill-or-be-killed world mentality out with him. It picked away at him, made him fear for his humanity. But Abbie was here, random and new and reminding him that he was still very human (and needed some practice).

Their machines began to ding; they both returned to them, tossing wet clothes into carriers and carting them over to the two dryers on the wall. Her’s were up top. His was low. This was hilarious. “Wanna switch?”

Her brow arched in challenge, “I think I can manage just fine. Unless you’re looking out for those knees; I’ll be happy to help.”

He wore the shock, dramatically (that he’d learned from Sam), “you calling me old? Giant, old, big foot, what else you got?” They worked in unison, sorting through their respective carriers.

“Hey, not all of it was bad; I’ve called you cute at least once.” She is stretching, standing on her toes and it is _adorable_.

“You think I’m cute?”

She was about to respond, but they both stop short, his hand going to the back of his pants and her hand going to her left hip because, “why do you have a gun?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm still learning how to write them. Let me know what you guys think! Critiques welcome.


	4. Jenny & Sam, Phones

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam and Jenny AU. A little steamy, Sex is heavily implied. And that stamina? It's supernatural (get it?)

They rolled away from each other, completely spent. Chests heaved and lungs worked over time to breath around the humid air they’d created. They were sure that later, when duty called and the world was caught up in something supernatural that required clothes, they’d regret _three hours_. They smiled anyway. Sam was glad Jenny had the cabin, because Dean would have never left him alone about this. Jenny’s glad that Abbie Mills is good at taking hints. For two months they’d been seeing each other, and for a little over three weeks they’d been having crazy, awesome, mind-blowing sex. So, when nature called, they usually turned off their phones because nothing kills a mood more than a whiny older sibling.

They must have forgotten this time.

As if it were planned, both of their phones began buzzing and ringing. Sam sighed, Jenny groaned. Neither moved. When Jenny began to stir, Sam rolled over to her, locking his arm around her clad waist, “let it go to voicemail”, he placed a breathy kiss to her hip. She grinned down at him, turning into his embrace, phone forgotten.

And then they were ringing again.

The general rule between them was that two calls equated urgency. So, Sam couldn’t ignore it, because though Dean was thrilled about the couple, it’s unlikely that he’d excuse Sam ignoring his impending death because his girlfriend was naked.

Sam wasn’t very sentimental with music, but Dean’s ringtone was distinguished. Jenny, however, tagged New Editions “Candy Girl” to Abbie’s number. She’d told him before that it was an inside joke between the sisters. He was still waiting on the rest of the story. Very naked and really irritated, the two searched for their cell phones. He found his behind the dresser, she found hers in her jeans under the bed.

“Dean?”

“Hey Abbie.”

They were up and moving now, anticipating that their siblings needed them. They each collected their clothes, Sam putting his boxers on. Jenny remained naked, and he smiled in appreciation.

Sam heard crunching in the background, trying to assess the situation, “is everything okay?”

Dean’s voice came back muffled, “are you okay? I literally haven’t heard from you in like two days”, Sam identified the crunching following his brothers lazy tone; _potato chips_.

No distress. No impending death. No emergency. “Seriously, Dean?” Sam flopped down on the bed, jolting Jenny, who sat opposite him. His face was completely stale, and so was hers.

“Jenny”, Abbie said in that mother hen tone she took on whenever she believed Jenny wouldn’t listen otherwise, “you’ve been M.I.A for two days. Are you seriously still with Sam?”

Jenny pursed her lips, pushing her clothes back off the bed, picking a pillow up off of the floor, and placing it under her head as she laid back in her previous position, “is that seriously why you called twice?”

“I was worried”, came an in sync response from their respective siblings. Sam lied beside her, shaking his head and pulling the sheets over the both of them.

“I told you, unless you absolutely needed me, I was off duty”, Jenny sighed.

Sam kissed her shoulder, his phone hardly pressed to his ear as Dean droned, “…did you even think to, I don’t know, let me know that you weren’t getting yourself killed out there? We do not have the best track record with this stuff Sam; you’re giving me trust issues.”

Abbie was exasperated. “Well you could have called me, or texted-- _something_!” Jenny was _done_ , but Sam was distracting her. She swatted him away when his kisses continued from her shoulder, down. She tried to hide the smile in her voice. “I’ll communicate better next time”.

Abbie paused, “Sam’s there isn’t he?”

Jenny grabbed his hair when he reached her hip. He bit her. “Ow!” she laughed. She could see Abbie’s face now, and started laughing. “Ew, Jenny. Okay, I just wanted to check in—“

“Tell Abbie I said hi”, Sam grinned against her hip, kissing her again, now making a trail across her abdomen. Jenny was still smiling, her hand entangled in Sam’s hair when Abbie’s line went dead. She laughed, because Sam was tickling her and Abbie sent a text;

_“Just text me next time.”_ She dropped the phone, because her hands had far better things to do.

“Sam?” Dean’s voice threw him all the way off, “I’m still here”.

Sam paused, holding in his audible sigh. Jenny was not as quiet with her displeasure, perfect eyebrows commanding Sam’s attention and _continuance_.

“And I’m very proud of you. Tell Jenny I said _hello_ ”. Sam shook his head at his brother, “uh huh, can I call you back? I’m sort a in the middle of something.”

“So much pride, Sam.” _Click_.

Sam threw the phone across the room, and Jenny grinned at him again, “You forgot to turn it off again”, she said, squeezing his shoulders as he came to a looming position above her, hair fanning around his face.

He brought a hand up to smooth her hair away from her eyes, “I put it on silent.”

She smiled, turning them over, “good enough for me.”


	5. Abbie & Dean, Arrested

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> arrested: (3) attract the attention of (someone); attract, capture, hold. Abbie, S3, Dean, S3. Yall remember Henrikson? They did my mans dirty, so he will also make some appearances in here!

She stopped leaving the light on because she didn’t want him to come. She didn’t want him dragging his boots up her apartment steps and laying on her buzzer because he doesn’t understand moderation and never has. She doesn’t want to look out the window and make out that heap of leather and denim to be _him_.

But when she’s woken from sleep at 6:42am, after a graveyard shift, she knows it’s him. Snatching the blankets off her scantily clad body, she all but stomps downstairs in flip-flops and a half opened robe.

She doesn’t go downstairs to let him in. She goes downstairs to make a point.

Her door hits the wall with a bang when she wrenches it open. He doesn’t even look sorry, like he usually does when she finds him at her door, early in the morning, knowing damn well she doesn’t want to. His face is passive, his whole frame filling up the doorway. He fits there and she absolutely hates it. And he knows that.

He watches her draw her brows low and set her jaw and can see the speech coming. “I don’t know what you think this is, or who you think I am, or what you think we are, but you can’t be here. I am an officer of the law and should arrest your ass where you stand. Leave, or I will.”

His eyes flicker over her face, and he takes a step forward, from which she does not back away from. The smile that spreads across his lips is not so much a smile as it is an affirmation of some suspicion, “arrest me then.”

He’s an entire foot taller than she is. The height difference is most prevalent when they stand like this, chest to chest. The tilt of her head is accompanied with a defiant set of her jaw, while he peers down at her, eyes hooded. She’s so angry. He isn’t. But this dance is an old number, and she refuses to be upstaged, so she takes his wrist in her hand, which was a mistake.

Contact is always the catalyst.

He uses it. Always. And she likes the way he uses it, too, _which makes her hate it_.

He pulls his wrist up, and there’s a moment where she anticipates struggle, but he lowers their joined arms, slowly, bringing her in and she puts both hands on his chest. There’s another moment of anticipation, but this time, it’s not of a struggle. This anticipation is awaiting an answer. “Arrest me, Abbie.”

She should. She should take his ass in and let Henrikson deal with him. She should rid herself of Dean Winchester for good. But she won’t, she knows she won’t and so does he and that’s what pisses her off. That’s what’s been pissing her off since the beginning of…this. That he is bad, and she is good. That he operates outside of the law, and she has taken oaths to uphold it. They were everything the other was not. And no matter how fundamental the difference, she left the light on for him, answered when he laid on the buzzer because she knew that leather and denim was _him_.

It was because of Sam, and Jenny, and the demons that ruined their lives, the blue eyed men that saved them, the surrogate fathers, and their righteous indignation to what everyone told them was impossible. It was that passion in her eyes that she couldn’t see until she’d seen it in him. It was that unyielding fight in him that he hadn’t known until he knew her. No matter how fundamental the difference, Abbie Mills and Dean Winchester were on in the same. She couldn’t shake him. She couldn’t let him go. She couldn’t just give him up because there is nothing worse than betraying yourself.

“Ask again”, her hands sidle up his chest, around the back of his neck and onto his head, her fingers sliding against the fine hair that stand, cropped against it, “and I will. Don’t tempt me.” She lifts up on the balls of her feet, and he meets her halfway. She’s not sure who ends and who begins. He doesn’t either. Neither care. Henrickson be damned.

 


	6. Jenny & Sam, Baby

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is the first in a series!

He feels what must be panic rise in his throat when he sees it. His hands all but freeze and his back goes rigid, whatever quip about ordering Chinese for dinner again dying on his lips when he sees it. Her. When he sees her. Jenny. When he sees _Jenny_ and a _baby_.

Jenny is holding a baby.

“What is that?” the words are out of his mouth so fast it sounds like a collision of consonants. His chest rises and falls, lungs working over-time because his brain had forgotten for a brief moment to tell him to breath. Jenny’s arms are full of big, fat, squishy, curly haired, brown skinned baby. And she’s looking at that baby the way women who love their children look at babies and a sweat has broken out beneath his collar.

She looks up at him, and the first thing she registers is his panic, and so she laughs, “her name is Olivia, like pope”, she turns her grin on the baby, hand gentle against her tiny chest. “Close the door, you’re letting the cold in”, she says without looking at him and he obliges blindly, locking the door and descending the steps into the bunker, wondering if he’s maybe dreaming.

“Is, uh…”, he approaches her the way he would a bear with his laptop, “is the baby…yours?” She turns completely unamused eyes on him, bouncing and walking gently in a short line, from one invisible point to another, “have I looked pregnant to you lately, Sam? Of course not. She’s my goddaughter”, she looks at the baby again and whatever annoyance she was feeling towards him melts off of her face, and she’s smiling again. It kind of makes him smile, despite himself, “you remember Irving? He and his ex got back together and they made up for lost time by having this little angel”. Jenny’s eyes are soft in a way Sam is sure he’s never seen. The shock slowly starts to wear as he watches her. She looks, strangely, at home, holding something so small. He’s not used to it. She pauses in her pacing, and really acknowledges him, standing in the middle of the floor like he lost his shoe (again), “Sam? You okay?”

He takes a breath, nodding, “what are you doing in the bunker with a baby?”

“Irving’s helping Abbie and Dean on a case, and in return I get to spend a couple hours with my favorite baby”, she smiles at her, _Olivia_ , “Cynthia and Macey are back at home since the kid’s got basketball tryouts. I offered to help take the edge off”, she shrugs, and takes a seat in one of the chairs at the table. He drops his bag on the same table, and realizes that he has not closed any of the distance between them. She scrunches her eyebrows at him, “Sam, get over here.” His feet feel like lead, all of a sudden. But he does, he walks over and sits in the seat beside her. She’s smirking at him, and he can’t un-see how comfortable she looks like this, “you don’t interact with babies much, do you?”

He shakes his head, because the last time he saw a baby, he didn’t have a soul so his memories of babies are a little dark. “They don’t come up so much in my line of work”. She shakes her head at him, but he goes on, “I’m just not very—paternal.”

“You might be selling yourself short”, she gives him a genuine smile. “Here”, she turns in the chair to face him, and dread pools in his stomach, “do you want to try to holding her?”

His first instinct is to back out. Back out, and _run_. But Jenny’s sincerity is rooting him to his seat. He looks up at her, and she stands. Her body fits between his open legs where he sits, and she instructs him to position his arms a certain way in order to support the baby’s head and neck, and keep them both comfortable. When he cradles the baby—Olivia—in his arms, something about the juxtaposition of all of it strikes him. His hands are calloused and rough, heavy and deadly, when necessary. And he’s holding a tiny, precious little life in those same hands. And still, no matter the contrast, it feels _okay_. He’s fine, like this, and Olivia is bright eyed and staring at him like he’s never spilt a drop of blood in his life. Olivia is looking at him and when he smiles, she smiles back at him.

He gets lost in it, that tiny smile, and emotion swells in his chest. He puts a finger against her chest, feeling her tiny heartbeat, and her unimaginably small hand wraps around that finger. He can’t stop smiling, he feels his eyes rim with tears and he asks out loud, “is this normal?”

Jenny, who, when he can tear his eyes from Olivia, is smiling at him all soft the way she had at the baby, nods, “yeah, Winchester. It is.”


	7. Abbie & Dean, Talk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is technically Baby 2.0, but it had a mind of its own.

It was always quiet when Abbie came home. She’d work all day, bombarded by sound; the tap of fingers against keyboards, the shrill ring of a phone, the endless cacophony of voices. And then, she’d endure city traffic and ascend the stairs of a colorfully inhabited apartment building to her always quiet home. Sometimes, it provided comfort. Sometimes, it amplified the loneliness that goes along with independent living. And sometimes, it wouldn’t be quiet at all because somehow, one of her friends had gotten in. While they were dating, Luke had left her gifts after her graveyard shifts all the times. When they were still partners, Andy had used the emergency-only key because he couldn’t figure out which tie to wear on a date, which had been his first in a long time. She’d been okay with it, back then. And Jenny, once they got back into the swing of things, was always breaking in and stealing her favorite pillows to crash on her couch and sleep off perilous adventure she’d been on that week. But that didn’t happen anymore, so it was quiet at home. Abbie could count on it. Maybe it wasn’t always comforting anymore, but it was constant.

Imagine her surprise when she came home and heard a baby crying.

Her gun went up, instinctually, and she lowered it, realizing that maybe a baby wasn’t going to provide any physical threat. But since she’s been moonlighting as a hunter with some…interesting partners as of late, anything was possible. She kept the gun out as she made her way through the narrow hall that led to her kitchen.

If she weren’t a trained police officer, she would have dropped the gun.

“I thought I’ve seen everything”, Abbie found her voice, sheathing her gun, and putting her work satchel on the counter, “but this is a little much.”

Dean was walking back and forth, bouncing slightly and ‘shush-ing’ a fussy, swaddled baby who was whining and…was that a growl?

He smiles at her the way she imagines he smiles when he’s trying to get away with something, “Sorry about—breaking in”, she nods, encouraging him to keep going because they both knew that ‘sorry’ wasn’t going to cut it. They’d been partners for only a couple months, and she’d stated that her home was her sanctuary and absolutely off limits when it came to supernatural…shenanigans.

Babies that growled counted as shenanigans.

“My buddy Garth—it’s a really long story. But long story short, I’m watching his kid because he’s got to avenge a cousin who got mauled by another pack— “

Abbie shook her head and tried to will the confusion away (it wasn’t working),” pack?”

“Oh”, he looked down at the fussy, growling baby, smiling at it. It must have not smiled back, because his fell, “werewolves. Like I said— “, he reached blindingly for what Abbie saw on the corner of the table as a bottle, “long story.”

She caught the bottle before he could drop it on her freshly mopped kitchen floor, and handed it over. He smiled in thanks, sticking the bottle in the baby’s mouth. Abbie, close enough now, stood behind him and watched the baby drink and bounce his shiny eyes between the two of them, “baby’s not gonna hulk out is he? Because I would just—rather not.”

Dean’s furrowed brow matched hers as they looked down at the baby, “Garth said that he’s harmless, because he doesn’t have teeth…”

“Dean”, Abbie looked over at him, and he turned wide, innocent eyes on her, “why are you in my apartment with a werewolf baby?”

He kept feeding the baby, a look of determination in his eyes, “I was in the neighborhood— “

Her lips pursed, “Try again.”

He sighed, turning so that they were facing one another. He slowed his bouncing to a stop, swaying instead, and keeping his eyes on hers, “I wanted to talk about the other night.”

A tension that had not existed in the room before this moment began to climb up Abbie’s skin and suddenly she was very glad for the toothless werewolf baby in her kitchen because there was somewhere else to look other than Dean.

Interesting-partner-situation had become very complicated a couple nights ago when a two very drunk and surprisingly lonely people decided to…find some comfort in one another. In the back of a ‘60s Chevy impala. In their drunken haze, they agreed to never talk about it because it wasn’t a big deal and did not need to be talked about. And she repeated that to herself every night thereafter when she came home to a constant quiet that felt real wrong and suddenly fixable.

Abbie reached out and stroked the baby’s face, who leaned into the touch, “Why?”

Dean sighed, “I know we said we wouldn’t talk about it, but— “, he paused and she looked up, searching his eyes and awaiting him to finish, “I wanna talk about it.”

A lot of weird things have gone down in her kitchen. She could probably make a list. She’d put the image of she and Dean, standing in front of one another all squared off and awkward with a werewolf baby between them at the top. But he was being earnest, so she tried to focus.

“So talk, Dean”, she put her hands on her hips, “you can talk.”

His brow furrowed, “and you don’t want to?”

She rolled her eyes, feeling all her very sturdy walls wobble their way up, as they paced away from one another. She, to get some distance, and he, to try and put the baby to sleep, “I don’t have to.”

“Okay”, came his gruff, almost defeated voice, “is there something to talk about?”

She looked over at him again. Earnest. A little open, but not too much, like she was. Holding a damn baby in the middle of her kitchen. She doesn’t know when she began to notice, but that earnest, almost open presence was probably the same thing haunting her very empty apartment as of late. Yes, it was quiet. Yes, she was used to it. But maybe this, as weird as it was, wasn’t so bad. Maybe he, as weird as he was, wasn’t so bad. Maybe they _should_ talk about it.

“Yeah”, her eyes raised up from the tile, to the finally sleeping baby, to him, “yeah…I guess there is.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed it! This had been sitting, incomplete, forever. I figured I'd give yall a lil sumthin sumthin. ;)


	8. Jenny & Sam, Stay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam laments. And thinks...maybe he should stay. [SPN, post-S7/SH, post S1]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is so short, and I'm so sorry. I just dont want the story to lose any steam! Its actually kinda unfinished. I'll probably leave this here as a preview for the longer piece. Let me know if I should flesh it out, or leave it be.

Jenny Mills scared the hell out of Sam Winchester.

When he first met her, he was on the job. He’d been staring down the bottle of a something dark and smooth, looking for a reason to keep going. His brother was in purgatory and he had just realized how _tired_ he was. This life was a rat race you never saw the end of. But Dean was gone, there was _no one_ left and maybe it was time to walk away. Maybe, he should go and do what they said they’d always do—go and settle down somewhere. That’d be nice, wouldn’t it? Settle down, and get a home to come back to with some nice girl who’d let him lay his head down on her chest and rest a little while. Buy a van. Maybe a dog. It’d be nice. Maybe it was time to settle for something _nice_.

He was going to, he really was.

And then Jenny Mills walked in.

She didn’t look _nice_. She looked like the definition of _trouble_ , that’s what she looked like. Sam knew it because Sam knew _himself_. She was the kind of beautiful that fucked you up and made you say ‘thank you’ after. She was the kind of girl who didn’t look like she’d settle down. She looked like a fight waiting to happen. She had the grit of a person who didn’t believe in sitting down because there was work to do. He saw that familiar glint in her eye that screamed resistance; she didn’t have any intentions of being held down by _nice_. Jenny Mills was the exact opposite of all his plans, and instead of running the other direction, he got up from his stool and asked her if he could buy her a drink.

She’d smiled against the rim of the one she had already started on, “how do you know I’m not drinking alone?”

“You’re not”, Sam says, smiling and not feeling as silly as he should for coming on to this woman in a bar, “because I’m offering.”

They did it in the back of a Jeep Caravan he’d stolen. And the next day, when she was gone, she’d taken his Swiss army knife and left her number on the roof of the car above his head.

It wasn’t that she’d hit it and quit it, or taken his Swiss army knife, which he could buy a new one of. It wasn’t that they’d had really good sex in the back of his stolen car. It wasn’t that she’d matched him drink for drink. It wasn’t one of those things; it was everything. Jenny Mills wasn’t _nice_ , she was _him_ and it scared the hell out of him.

Girls like Jenny reminded him of the way things used to be. When he was on the open road with Dean, and they were being secret super heroes to the whole world. When they played the cocky rich kids out of their father’s money. Being sexiled by his big brother, which wasn’t fun, but definitely returning the favor. Girls like Jenny reminded him of home, and that’s what he was trying to get away from because the pain of losing all of it was too much to handle.

But Jenny’s number on the roof provided another option that he’d been resisting since his brother was sucked into purgatory:

 

What if he stayed?


	9. Abbie & Dean, To Live

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alternate ending to SH, S3. Of course. SPN post S4.

Abbie hadn’t sat down once since they’d gotten back to her apartment. It had been a fight to get her through the door, but Dean couldn’t let her leave. Besides, there was nothing that she could do now. She paced, seethed, and didn’t say a word to him, ignoring his presence like they weren’t the only two people in the room and he let her because he _understood_.

Ichabod was gone.

The witness had fallen. During another battle to save the world, they’d watched as Ichabod jumped into the space Abbie had intended to occupy. Pandora took his life to spare hers, defeat the Hidden One, save the world, be the hero...

But her best friend was gone.

_“Abbie”, Ichabod’s voice had echoed, like the way ripples in water must sound as his body faded and the air around them felt like it was closing in, “you were always my hope. I  will always love you— “_

Dean, Sam, and Jenny destroyed Pandora, but it was too late. There was no way to get Ichabod out of the box. Abbie was a wreck, fighting them tooth and nail to get back to the box and pry it open. None of them had the heart to tell her that there was no point. It wasn’t going to bring Ichabod back. Dean knew that feeling all too well. Death did not have a revolving door, and when it did, there was always a catch.

So they came back to her apartment. She paced. He made her a drink. Hers went untouched, for what was turning into an hour and he watched her wear out the rug. “Abbie”, he tried, and she ignored him, whole body closed in as she paced the length or her wall. His eyes followed her from where he sat in the arm chair to her left, losing the taste for his beer, “Abbie, you should sit down. You’ve been up all day…I think you need a break.”

She ignored him, pacing, her eyes focusing on anything else. He sighed, putting his beer down and standing from his seat, “Abbie, there’s nothing we could’ve done— “

_That_ was it. She picked up a glass from the mantle on the wall, smashing it on the ground. Dean shields his eyes from the bounce back, and her voice comes out grief stricken and hoarse, “Bullshit. I let this happen. I let him die—it’s my fault— “

“Abbie”, Dean’s voice is soft now as he approaches her, hazarding an embrace as he wraps his arms around her shaking frame, “this is not your fault. You cant control what happens in this fight, okay? None of us can. It’s not fair. It’s bullshit. But Crane…he wouldn’t want to be standing here if it had been the other way around”. And selfishly, Dean is glad it wasn’t Abbie. He wouldn’t wish Crane’s fate on anyone, but Abbie Mills deserved life. She deserved to be happy and healthy and loved and to _live_.

She turns around in his arms, and pushes at his chest. He releases her, and she looks him in his eyes, both searching and trying to destroy all at the same time, “He had a choice--! “

“The alternative was that you died”, Dean searched her eyes, too, “are you telling me that you would have been okay with that?”

“What if I said I was”, she asks, spiteful, headstrong and trying her best to escape what she doesn’t want to come to terms with. Dean looks into her broken eyes and sees himself, when Sam was stabbed, and when his father flat-lined in that hospital, and he puts his hands on hers, stilling the tremor beneath her skin.

“Then I’d call your bluff. Abbie you don’t wanna die”, he laughs, a mirthless breath pushing past his lips as he thinks of his own _experiences_ , “not now. This is not how your story ends. Crane knew that, and that’s why he made this call. It don’t feel fair, and it aint ever gonna feel fair, but Crane lived, _twice_ , and you haven’t had the chance. You deserve the chance, Abbie.”

For the first time since they entered that apartment, there was stillness. His words filled in the small spaces that threatened to cave in on them because it was true; Abbie had everything to lose, and Crane was always telling her that her story would not end like the Mills' women before her.

And he’d kept his promise.

Dean catches her when she falls, buckling under the weight of what it’s like to be the one still standing. His arms cradle her and he sinks to the floor with her. In this moment, Abbie grieves, but after, she promises not to waste her chance.

Dean makes a promise, too: he’ll never let her live alone.


	10. Jenny & Sam, Something

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so this is the last official one of the series. I have never finished ANYTHING firneds, but the feedback and the love for this one has really encouraged me to write, so, from the bottom of my heart, I want to thank you thank you thank you. It was lovely to hear your voices, and I know that it hasnt always been amazing writing but non-cannon ships are hard lol. Anyways, to end my ramble, I want to thank you again, promise I'll write more Abbie/Dean (if I can ever get a plot together) and hope that this update is as well received as the others. 
> 
> Special thanks to the readers who've been here from the beginning and commented on everything; you're the realest MVPs.

Most stories start right in the middle of the whirlwind. They start with a chance meeting; he can’t look away and she’s can’t stop grinning. They never leave the bed. It’s red hot passion and constant spinning. It’s breathing, with both lungs, and feeling _all_ of the air. It’s one hand in another’s, happy, even if it’s brief. It’s smiling in the morning, squinting against the glare of the sun from the window. It’s lips closing around each-others at night. It’s love, maybe, but it’s definitely _something_.

Most stories start right in the middle of that, but that whirlwind is on a timer. That red hot passion only lasts so long because people have shit to do that don’t always involve you. The true mark of happiness is staying when the smiles stop being constant, and when the sex aint routine. It’s being there when the one you love doesn’t look at you like the world will stop spinning if you look away. It’s being there when the fights start (and they got to end somewhere). It’s being there on the cold nights when that fickle feeling of _nothing_ tries to temp you out of you bed.

Their whirlwind is over. They’re both tired. Sam’s a little banged up from a hunt, sitting on the couch shirtless, dirty, and bleeding. Jenny’s a little ruffled from an excavation, smelling like gun powder, sweat, and graves. She takes her Henley off, and comes around the back of the couch, “lean your head back?” He does, and she kisses him, long and chaste with enough pressure to be present. She feels his mouth curve at the end of it. “You need help?”

Sam looks down at the improperly bandaged wrap around the wound on his left side, a graze with a knife that will leave little more than a scar in its wake. He shrugs into a wince, nodding, and her laugh is so knowing that it catches his attention, his voice a little indignant when he finds it, “what?”

Jenny’s disappeared into the bathroom, coming back out with her bra and wry smile and fresh bandages, “you’re funny, that’s what.” She plops down beside him, and he makes another displeased noise for dramatic affect. Her reaction is desired, rolling her eyes as her steady hands work non-so-gently against his tender skin. He watches her. Her brows furrow down into something akin to a frown when she’s focused. Her hair hands unruly, framing her face in a way he relates to their bedroom. She’s beautiful like this, mind on one track, hands on him, and comfortable in the quiet.

He briefly remembers when their relationship was nothing but noise; loud music and labored breathing, guns popping, knives through inhuman flesh. Then there were the sounds he enjoyed; hitches in their breath, skin gliding over skin, moans that come from somewhere deep neither of them knew existed until they’d met the other. After a while, there was quiet, and Sam was afraid because he’d been there before. He was afraid of the quiet, because it usually came before the storm. And the storm was always the end.

But it’d been almost two years and the storm hadn’t come. Jenny was in this. And it inspired confidence, because if she was all in, then so was he.

“You still love me?”

They didn’t say that: I love you. Their relationship was more of the show-and-tell type. They’d said it before; in the intimate moments before and after what should have been death, or when their bodies were spent from pleasure and that’s all either of them could think. He said it all the time, because he was into words that way. Jenny, as much as she liked words, was far more about action. His eyes never left her as she stilled, briefly to look up from the wound to him. Her eyes read something he thinks he’s maybe missed that’s been there all this time; calm, “yeah Sam. I do”, she looked back down to the wound, “why?”

He watches her again, through that calm lens, and realizes that even though the whirlwind has ended, that something is still there. It just looks different now. It’s dressing his wounds and being comfortable and making a home, as they’ve done. it’s sticking around, against her nature. It’s focusing on him, when she worked hard on her ability to focus on herself. It’s Jenny showing Sam she loves him, better than she can tell him.

It’s something.

His smile is crimpled at the end by a slight tug at his bandage to tighten it, but he smiles anyway, reaching for her chin and lifting her lips to his, “you wanna order thai?”

She grins, and it’s happy, as she lowers his aching body down on the couch and he decides he doesn’t mind the sting.


	11. Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here it is! Last one.
> 
> I want to say thank you, again, for everyone who has commented and given kudos and shown this story some love. It really kept me going. Seriously, yall are amazing.
> 
> I hope this meets expectations. I been having a bit of a hard summer, but writing is a little bit of an escape. 
> 
> Again, I hope this delivers. 
> 
> With love, peace, and chicken grease,  
> Mel

_“A chair is still a chair—even if there is no one sitting there”_

Abbie smiles softly, the curve her lips make matching the candle light and the warm, sudsy water in the bath tub. She is at ease, for once, and it is almost new, like the way snow feels every winter after three seasons without: you know what it feels like, but that does not temper your excitement or your delight. That’s what this bath is like. “But a room is not a house”, Abbie sings low, like she’s telling herself a secret as she lathers a bar of soap into her skin, taking care to keep her hair from the water as she leans back against the tub. The words and the water wash over her and she finds herself thinking about home.

The memories aren’t fond; her mother was unwell, her father was infuriating, and her sister was so young. Home was a couple of plaster walls, a dreaded thought in her fourteen year old mind that pooled in her chest that kept her going the other direction, until she didn’t have a home to even go back to. Her foster homes were never _homes_ ; they were places she could keep her things, _maybe_ , and sleep safely, _sometimes_. Corbin became, and would forever be, family, but he had his own home and no matter how hard he tried, that was never Abbie’s. And then she grew up, and even the four walls that she paid for didn’t really feel like home.

She is still singing along when the door cracks open, and she sees Dean’s hands around the door knob. He raps against the frame, his face softening when he sees her and she smiles back, “hey”, he rumbles low, trying to not disturb the peace, “you enjoying this?”

“Oh, a little too much”, she grins, noticing the sotto nature of her own voice, “we should let me pick the motels more often.”

“Okay, you got lucky”, he comes to sit on the edge beside her legs, “who knew this Motel 6 would have a clawfoot bathtub?”

She arched an eyebrow, “google.”

His laugh is warm and it leaves the same easy feeling in her chest that the candle light and bubbles leave in the room. She looks at him, the usual hard lines of his shoulders, relaxed beneath his flannel, and the frown lines interrupted by his smile. She looks at him, and with the accompanying harp and croon of Mr. Luther Vandross charging the air, she starts thinking of home again.

This time, it’s different.

She thinks of the first time they met, after the dust during a gun fight had settled. She had never intended to be his friend, but one night, under a black sky and the influence of far too much whiskey, she asked him why he always had a faraway look in his eye. He told her about Castiel. She, in turn, told him about Ichabod. They bonded on accident. They fell in love on purpose. They fought this good fight, together, with their loved ones and for their loved ones and for the first time in a very long time, Abby felt something like _permanence_ when she looked at Dean Winchester.

“Hey”, his smile stretches into something sly, his fingertips treading lightly along the line of her calf and cupping her calf, “don’t use all the hot water.”

“You know”, she dips her back a little lower, legs pushing further up into his grasp, “we could conserve water…right now.”

His eyes sparkle a little and he pulls at the shoulder of his flannel when they hear the tell-tale clink of beer bottles in a six pack and his brother’s loud laughter and her sister’s sardonic voice.

Both of them sigh, deep and loud and he leans over to kiss her pouting lips, “rain check?”

Abbie smirks, answering with a tug at his collar.

~*~

Jenny and Sam had already claimed the bed nearest the window. He was on his back, one arm around Jenny’s waist, the other thrown over his eyes and Jenny was sitting up like a mother would, waiting for her teenage delinquent to come home; arms crossed and all, “Its rude to have a quickie when your guests are in the other room.”

Dean, cheeky, wrapped the towel he was carrying, around his head, “wasn’t that quick.”

Jenny’s lip curled, “gross.”

“You’re late anyway”, Abbie came out of the bathroom after Dean, scoring the table for whatever the other two had brought in, “we told yall 8; I was in the tub at like, 9:30 and you still weren’t here. What were _you_ doing all this time?”

Sam chuckled and Jenny tried not to look caught, “Mind your business.”

 “Please tell me you put a towel down”, Dean said, pulling a chosen bottle of Guinness from his lips, grimacing, “I don’t wanna think about you defiling Baby—“

“Oh shut up, Dean”, Sam said. He leaned up, his face coming to rest where Jenny’s hip met her thigh. He looked completely content, and it made Abbie smile. When they first met, a dark cloud seemed to hang over his head, and Abbie could not blame him. It was hard for Jenny, too, when Abbie went to purgatory with no promise of coming back. In that time, though, they’d found something real in one another. Something that even spurred Abbie and Dean on, inspired them to try.

As Abbie settled into Dean side on the other bed, surrounded by their easy laugher, the warmth of his arms and the comfort of their presence, for the third time that evening, Abbie began to think of home.

And finally figured it out.

Home wasn’t a house; it wasn’t a set of walls, the places you were or the places you’d been. Home was deeper than that. Home was late nights and long talks and big fights and quiet nights in the back of old muscle cars when the nightmares were too much. Home was the embrace of Jenny’s hand. Home was Sam’s brilliant smile. Home was Dean, like this; free and unburdened.

Home was where your heart was.

Abbie nuzzled closer into Dean’s chest, and smiled.

It was good to be home.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you liked it! Leave your kudos, thoughts, and etc. I'd love to hear from you! Thanks again!


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